


I'm Just as Blue as the Sky

by Edward_Fairfax



Series: Taking the Game Up [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 17:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9335972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edward_Fairfax/pseuds/Edward_Fairfax
Summary: What happened after Vegas.A (completely unexpected) continuation ofA Fascinating Gaze.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So: this happened. I really can't explain why, except that I kept finding myself wondering about it. So I decided to find out. I should add (because if you know me at all, you know that I obsess over details) that this felt so distinctly different from A Fascinating Gaze in any number of ways, that I decided to post it as a separate work in a series, rather than simply adding a chapter. Perhaps that choice is misguided, since I doubt it will make sense if you haven't read the earlier piece, but since I am (quite literally) incapable of reading any series out of order, I can't say for sure.
> 
> All of the titles I used come from songs of the 1930s and 1940s. The series title comes from "Taking a Chance on Love," and the title of this piece comes from "Guess I'll Hang My Tears Out to Dry." (And since I forgot to say when I posted AFG, that title comes from "My Old Flame.") It's a theme!
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

Tommy walked into the rink where he practiced—and stopped short.

“Hey there, Tom-Tom.”

“Don't call me that,” Tommy bristled.

He got a lazy grin in response. “Why not? Aren't you my little brother? My _littlest_ brother?”

“Ugh. Unfortunately.” Tommy tried to scowl, but it was hard; in a lot of ways, Andy was his favorite brother. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I'd come hang out with you. Check in.”

“Yeah? Well, I got to work.”

Andy's eyes narrowed slightly. “You saying that I'm incapable of passing you a puck?”

“No, Andy: I'm _not_ saying that. What I'm saying is: you want to do drills with me? Fine. You want to play big brother and fucking grill me? Go the fuck home.”

“Who says I can't do both? Besides: there's nothing to do at home: Geoff's got a work thing.” He batted his eyes. “You don't want me getting all lonesome, do you Tommy?”

Tommy made a rude noise. “You? Lonesome? What happened, you melt your dildo in the microwave again?”

“Hey, how the fuck was I supposed to know there's a difference between microwave and convection?”

“What you should've known was the difference between two minutes and two hours.”

Andy started laughing. “What I _really_ should have known was not to lie down on the couch and fall asleep. Remember the look on Ma's face?”

“Before she pitched the whole microwave tray through the kitchen window or afterwards?”

“Either one. Did I ever tell you? I heard her and Dad talking about it later on.”

“You're shitting me.”

“I'm not.”

“What the fuck did Dad say?”

“At first: not too much. There was, like, this silence. You know the kind?”

“Do I ever,” Tommy said ruefully.

“And then, Dad sighed. And he said, 'Well, Louise: at least he was _trying_ to be hygenic.”

They both cracked up.

Eventually, Andy asked, “So, Tom-Tom: can I do drills with you?”

“Okay, fine. Just remember that I'm here to work; save the interrogation 'til I'm done.”

“This is me, promising nothing.”

**********

Tommy pulled a bottle of Gatorade out of his bag and held it out. “Here.”

Andy made a pitiful noise. “I can't reach it. And I can't move, so bring it over.”

“Getting soft in your old age, Andy,” Tommy snorted as he complied. “And don't try to drink this lying down; you'll choke.”

Andy lifted his head up a couple of inches. “I can't do this. You've broken me.”

“Bullshit.”

“It's true.” Groaning, Andy pushed himself partway off the bench. “Jesus freaking Pete, Tommy: the Pens have created a monster. Or a cyborg, maybe. Did Crosby assimilate you himself, or did he send you to the mother ship?”

Tommy gave him the finger. “Assimilate this.”

“That's not even a tickle, Tom-Tom.”

Tommy snickered into his Gatorade, and started stripping down. “Come on, Andy: get moving. My time's almost up.”

“You mean we can't have our little heart-to-heart talk here in the locker room?”

“I don't want to have any kind of meaningful conversation with you at all,” Tommy told him bluntly, “here or anywhere else, but since I've known you my whole life, I know that when you decide on something, there's no escape. So get your ass in the shower—you fucking reek, and I don't hardly notice no more, so it's gotta be bad—and let's get outta here. I'll even buy you a beer.”

“Two.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“One, asshole.”

“Two, cheapskate.”

“What the fuck ever.” Tommy stalked off to the shower and started washing. And when his brother showed up, studiously ignored him. For as long as he could. Which lasted until Andy stepped up behind him and wrapped his arms around Tommy's chest.

“Hey. Tommy.”

“What!”

“I'm sorry.”

Slowly, Tommy turned his head.

“What did you just say?”

“I'm sorry.” Andy moved his hands to Tommy's shoulders and turned him around. “I shouldn't have called you a cheapskate. That was way out of line. And it's so far from the fucking truth, it's not even funny.”

The fact that Andy seemed totally sincere made Tommy relax. A little, anyway. “I am cheap. I know that.”

“No, you're not. Well, maybe you are with yourself. But not with us. I know what you've been. . . .”

Tommy interrupted him. “Oh for fuck's sake, Andy: don't start. I ain't doing nothing . . .”

“That's a fucking lie.”

“No, it ain't; let me fucking finish, okay? I ain't doing nothing that you wouldn't do if you could. And what little I can do . . . well, it ain't enough. Our whole family made sacrifices for me. You think I don't know that?”

“Not the whole family.”

Tommy threw his hands up. “Okay. _Most_ of the family. Satisfied?”

“Not really, no.”

“Andy.” Tommy looked his brother in the eye. “If you love me, you'll shut up about this. Please?”

Andy scowled at him for a minute, and then shrugged. “Okay, Tommy. I'll let it go.”

_“Thank_ you.”

He grinned. “For now.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Tommy shoved him. “Come on, asshole. I'll buy the first round, but _you're_ buying the next one.”

“Fine.”

“Great.”

“Dick cheese.”

“Ass wipe.”

“I love you, Tom-Tom.”

“And I love you. Andy-Pandy.” Howling with laughter, Tommy took off, his brother in hot pursuit.

**********

“All right, spill,” Tommy demanded, once they were settled in the bar. “Who the hell decided I needed an intervention?”

“That's not what this is, Tommy.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah? Then what's going on?”

Andy lifted his glass and took a healthy swallow. “A couple of things. And not all about you.”

Tommy put his glass down untouched. “Is everything okay? Is there something you need?”

“Chill, little brother. I'm fine. We're talking about you first.”

Scowling, Tommy drank some of his beer. “What about me?”

“Something's eating at you.”

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.”

“Yes. I. Am.”

“If you were fine, you wouldn't be tapping your foot on your stool.”

Tommy jerked his foot off the rung.

“See?” Andy's smile was smug. “It's your biggest tell. I'm your big brother and I can read you like a book. What's wrong, Tom-Tom? And no bullshit.”

“If you can read me so good,” Tommy retorted belligerently, “then why don't you tell me?”

“'Cause the way you're acting is . . . different. Tommy, I've known you my whole life, and I don't think I've ever seen you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Moody.” The word hung between them for a spell. Then Andy smirked. “Jimmy says you're on the rag.”

“Well, Jimmy would know. Is he still straight?”

“According to him, he is.”

Tommy snorted.

“I know, I know.” Andy shook his head. “Whatever. Let's dish about our problem bro later. You _are_ moody these days, Tommy. It's not like it's weird to see you happy, but from what I hear, you came back from Vegas practically floating. I had coffee with Ma and a couple of the bros the next day; that's all they talked about. Matty said you were so happy, you must've gotten laid.” He chuckled. “And Ma told him not to be an idiot. 'Of course he got laid,' she said, 'but it's got to be more than that. It's like he's farting rainbows.'”

Despite himself, Tommy had to laugh. “You ever wonder what Ma would be like if we'd all been girls?”

“She'd be a raging drunk. Or in prison.”

“Probably. Well, for the record, as a friend of mine likes to say, I _did_ get laid in Vegas. And about friggin' time, too: it'd been like eight, nine months!”

“You're shitting me.”

“I'm not.”

Andy shook his head. “That's fucking unnatural. I couldn't live like that.”

“Andy, you can't live if you and Geoff don't do it every eight hours.”

“Can I help it if I have a hot husband?” Andy asked smugly.

Tommy rolled his eyes. “He's a lot hotter than you, that's for sure. But not everybody is lucky enough to have that on tap.”

“What's the freaking problem, Toms? You're a fucking NHL player. You must get tons of offers.”

“Believe me, I don't. If I was straight, then, yeah: I could probably hook up every night, if I wanted to. But I ain't straight, and I ain't interested in banging somebody random all the time.”

“So get yourself a fuck buddy.”

“Like I have the time to find one. Or the interest, either.” Which was, although Tommy wasn't about to admit it, part of the problem.

“So, what: you just stay home every night and help Crosby polish his medals?”

Tommy laughed so hard he almost fell off the stool. Andy grinned and leaned in closer. “Tell me the truth, Tommy: that why Crosby let you move in? 'Cause you know how to tape a stick?”

Tommy rolled his eyes again. “Yeah, right. Believe me, I ain't Sid's type.”

“I guess not. Anyway: so you finally got your ashes hauled in Vegas. Good on you. But what the hell happened after you got back? Generally, you're an even-keeled kind of guy, Tommy, but you've been, like, terminally depressed lately; you weren't even like this when you got knocked out of the playoffs. If you're not working out or doing drills, you're holed up in your room.”

“That's not true,” Tommy said hotly. “I help Ma a lot. I go read to Gramma. I fucking almost broke my back fixing the side fence.”

“Okay, maybe I was wrong about that. But _something's_ up with you, Tommy, and I want to know what. You're not happy. What's going on?”

Tommy started to shake his head, but stopped when he got a good look at Andy's face. He was dead serious. And, unless Tommy was completely off base, concerned. And . . . worried.

Tommy sighed. He hated it when people worried.

“Okay, fine. I'll talk.”

Andy studied him. And then nodded. “Good. If you promise me no bullshit, I'll get the next round.”

“You were gonna anyway,” Tommy retorted without heat.

“Well, yeah: but I won't bitch and moan and try to make you feel guilty about it. As long as you talk.”

“I said I would, didn't I? Jesus. Give me a minute.” He slumped on his stool, drumming his fingers against the bar. Andy waited patiently, which Tommy appreciated.

“All right,” he said finally, raking his fingers through his hair—he needed to get it cut and soon—“I'll start by saying: this conversation is between you and me. That's it. You gotta swear you won't tell anybody else. Not Ma or Dad, or any of the others.”

“What about Geoff? You know I don't like keeping secrets from him.”

Tommy considered what to say. “I guess . . . okay, bear with me for a second. You can tell Geoff anything I tell you that's about me. Me and only me. You can't tell him anything that's not about me. And I'm not trying to be an asshole; it's just that . . . some things aren't mine to tell, you know?”

Andy raised his eyebrows—and then nodded. “Okay. I promise.”

After hesitating a second—and reminding himself that Andy had never broken a promise to him his entire life (except for the time his car broke down, but that didn't count)—Tommy took a fortifying swig of his beer.

“Like I said, I got laid in Vegas. Majorly laid.”

“Fun times?”

“You got no idea.”

“This a one-shot deal?”

Despite himself, Tommy smirked. “Two nights. And far fucking more than one shot, let me tell you.”

Andy laughed. “Get it, Tom-Tom!” he said admiringly, lifting his glass in a toast.

“I did,” Tommy said smugly, returning the gesture. “And I gave it, too.”

“That's my little bro. So what's the problem?”

“The problem is: it did something in my fucking head.” Then Tommy remembered his promise. “No, that ain't it. Exactly.” He took another gulp—and then drained his glass. Shoving it back on the bar he muttered, “I need another one if I'm gonna talk about this.”

Andy upended his own and waved to the bartender. When he'd collected the empties and walked away, Andy leaned a little closer. “Tommy.” His voice was deadly serious. “Did this guy do something to you?”

“Huh? Oh, Christ: no!”

“You sure?”

“Andy: no! Well, nothing I didn't want him to do. No, it's nothing like that. Besides: don't you think I can take care of myself?”

“You never know,” Andy said darkly. “Anyway,” he broke off to say thank you, “go on.” He moved his beer in front of him but didn't lift it.

Tommy grimaced. “Okay. So: I ain't exactly Mr. Experience, you know? I ain't never had much more than hook-ups. A couple of buddies here and there, but nothing . . . more involved, I guess you could say. So me and this guy. . . .”

Andy interrupted him. “You knew him?”

“Huh?”

“Before, I mean. Before you hooked up.”

“Uh, yeah. I went to Vegas for a reason, eh?” Tommy watched his brother figure it out; it didn't take long.

“So he's in the NHL.”

Tommy nodded. “Which is why I made you make that promise.”

“Oh. Okay.” Andy drank then. “Go on. How'd you get together?”

“Well, there was this big, I don't know, reception. And I noticed him looking at me. Like, a lot. So we started talking. Went to dinner—a big group of us, we didn't even sit together. But I got the definite impression he was interested. And once we'd, uh, confirmed that, we went back to my room.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I assume you got an idea what happened after that.”

“I can guess. Skip the deets for now. Except: was it good?”

“It sure was.” Tommy let himself remember the highlights. When Andy started cackling, he felt himself blush a little.

“So what's the problem?”

“The _problem_ is that the next morning I woke up . . . really liking the fact that he was still there. In bed with me, I mean. And I started thinking . . . about him being there more. Like, a lot more.”

“Him? Or someone?”

“Him.” Tommy wiped his mouth. “It's not like I don't want somebody, but . . . in this case, yeah, it was definitely him. So I had this little talk with myself. You know: one time thing, yadda yadda yadda. And then he woke up and had to go. And I figured: that's it, you know? But . . . he, like, called me later that day. And invited me out to dinner.”

“A date kind of thing?”

“Uh, yeah. And I was really happy, Andy. He's a hot guy. And he's really nice. He can be kind of a dork, but fuck: so can I. And in my head, almost the whole time, I'm telling myself, 'live in the fucking moment, Tommy. Enjoy yourself!'”

“And did you?”

“I sure as shit did; I've never had sex that good. But . . . fuck, Andy: I really like him.”

“So I repeat: what's the problem?”

“Do I have to fucking spell it out for you?”

“I guess you do.”

“Jesus.” Tommy resisted the urge to slap some sense into his brother. “I ain't never felt like this before. I keep thinking about him. And . . . wondering. What it'd be like. Dating him, I mean. Like, for real. But . . .”

“Hold on a sec, Tom-Tom,” Andy broke in. “What's 'dating for real' mean? Getting tested and fucking bare?”

“No, it don't mean that, you fucking hoser; it's way too soon for that. It means doing something else _besides_ fucking. Like having an actual conversation. About something other than hockey. Which we did, actually, over dinner. Uh, eventually. Or . . . listening to music, maybe; he's really into that. Or watching a movie and paying attention to it—instead of just killing time 'til you can get it up again.” He paused. “Just . . . hanging out. You know?”

“Yeah, I do. Since, you know, I sorta lived that. With Geoff.”

“Exactly!” Another thing Tommy wasn't about to admit was that Andy and Geoff's relationship was one reason why he wanted something real. Watching Sid and Andrew together was, of course, another.

Andy took a meditative pull of his beer. “You ever feel this way with one of your buddies?”

“No. Never. I mean, I liked them fine—and it's not like we never talked or nothing. And Christ knows we watched movies; it's why I'm allergic to goddamn Bruce Willis. Seriously: I break out in hives if somebody even mentions _Die Hard_ , you know?”

“You always were more one for the sci-fi. And the rom-coms,” he added with a grin.

“Everything I know about chick flicks I learned from you, Andy.”

“And then there's your secret love for classic Hollywood.”

“Ditto.”

“Bullshit! I'd never even heard of _Dark Victory_ , until I found you over at Gramma's _sobbing_ over the ending.”

“Yeah? Well, better crying over that than over . . .“

“Don't you dare finish that sentence, Tommy!”

“. . . _The Notebook_.”

“Oh Jesus!” Andy shuddered, rubbing his hand over his eyes. Then guzzled the rest of his beer. “I swear to God I'm gonna kick you 'til you're dead.”

“For fuck's sake: how gay are you? Did you just quote Cher to me?”

“No, dipshit; Olympia Dukakis says that line.”

“Oh, yeah. You know, I ain't seen _Moonstruck_ in forever; we should watch it again sometime.”

“Totally. Maybe I'll invite all the bros, and we can have a Standish movie fest. Which'll end, of course, with that ultimate comedy classic . . .”

_“Airplane!”_ they crowed in unison, high fiving each other.

“That is a fucking under-appreciated masterpiece,” Tommy declared, gesturing to the barkeep.

“It really, really, is.”

After ordering—even though he really wanted another beer, Tommy switched to water—he told his brother, “You know who loves that movie? Sid.”

“You're fucking kidding me.”

“I'm not. All I have to do is take the case off the shelf and he starts losing it. You should hear him.” He cleared his throat and monotoned, “'The white phone. No, the red phone. No, the white phone.'” He started laughing. “He bumped into me one day when we was leaving the ice after practice, so I yelled, 'Watch your vector, Victor!' He, like, totally dissolved; I thought Coach was gonna call for an ambulance.”

“Uh, Toms, we are talking about Sidney Crosby, right? Not some other Sid?”

“Of course we are; how many Sids do you think I know?”

“Beats me. Huh,” Andy stared into space for a second. “I couldn't be more surprised if you told me he likes gladiator movies too.”

Tommy snickered; if Andy only knew. . . .

“Anyway,” Andy said, “not that it isn't entertaining, this little glimpse into Crosby's circuitry, but let's get back to you.”

Tommy made a face. “Do we have to?”

“Yeah, we kind of do. I'm still having trouble figuring out what the problem is. You like this guy. You think he likes you back, right?”

Shrugging, Tommy said, “I guess. Enough to take me out to dinner, anyway.”

“There! You see?” Andy slapped him on the shoulder. “You're a catch. And the sex is apparently excellent. So: why are you so down? Why not play this out and see where it goes?”

Throwing up his hands, Tommy asked him, “Are you really that clueless? How can I play this out? First of all: in case you hadn't noticed, I'm in the middle of Saskatchewan. And he's not.”

“Where is he?”

“At home. Well, Pittsburgh right now, I guess.”

Andy choked. Tommy pounded him on the back until Andy waved him off.

“Christ on a cracker, Toms,” he rasped.

“What the hell's wrong with you?”

Andy looked around. And then he hissed, “Are you and Crosby _boinking_?”

When he could talk again, Tommy said, a little unsteadily, “Boinking? Seriously? What are you, twelve?”

“I notice you're not answering the question.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine. For the record: no. No, no, no. Sid and I have not boinked. We ain't gonna boink. Ever. There has been zero sexual contact between the two of us. No buddy-buddy hand jobs. No consolation blowies. Never happened. Never _will_ happen. Get it? Got it? Good.”

“Then, is it somebody else on the Pens?”

“Sweet bleeding Jesus, Andy: no! What, you think I'm a fucking idiot or something? I don't shit where I eat.”

“You did during Juniors.”

“ _Everybody_ does during Juniors. Helping each other out is, like, a team-building exercise.”

Andy snorted. But his face cleared. “Well, okay. Moving on—or back, I guess. You should. . . .”

“Andy.” Tommy was trying to be patient, but it was hard. Especially since he'd only been thinking about this shit practically non-stop since he got back. “Listen to me. Not only are we, like, thousands of miles apart right now, but he plays in the Western Conference. We're _always_ gonna be thousands of miles apart. For most of the year, anyhow. It can't work. Better to face facts now.”

“Yeah?” Andy cocked an eyebrow. “How's that whole reality thing working for you, Tom-Tom?”

Fuck; Tommy could feel himself starting to flush. He pressed his lips together and didn't answer.

“That good, huh? Listen to me, Tommy: if he's in your brain, there's a reason for it.”

“Spare me.”

“Hey, I know what I'm talking about. Admit it, Toms: for every time you tell yourself, 'it can't work,' there's another time you think, 'I wish it could.' Right?”

Instead of answering, Tommy grabbed Andy's beer and gulped.

“Yeah, I thought so. Which is why you owe it to yourself to fucking try. Maybe it won't go anywhere. But maybe it will. In matters of the heart, you gotta play a long game.”

“What cookie did you find that bullshit in?” Tommy sneered, albeit only half-heartedly.

“It's not bullshit; it's the truth. And I know what the fuck I'm talking about. For Christ's sake, Tommy: Geoff didn't even know he was gay when we met. Part of _me_ didn't think he was gay either. But he got in my head when I was fourteen years ago and he wouldn't leave. And I was happier having him in my head—and in my life—than I was without him being there. No matter what. You know, sometimes it don't matter whether someone's your friend or your lover: there's a place inside of you with his name on it. It could be a really small—or a really big—part of you. But since it's probably always gonna be there: wouldn't it be better to have it filled than empty?”

Without letting himself think too much about the emotions _that_ comment stirred up—especially the word “always”—Tommy blurted out, “You know, I'm sitting here listening to you, and I'm thinking you're right, that I should go for it—I mean, what have I got to lose, you know?—but there's something else. For all that we was up close and personal in Vegas? Ever since I got back, it's pretty much been radio silence.”

“Pretty much? What's that mean, exactly?”

“It means I sent him a text when I got home. And he didn't answer it right away, so I figured, you know, he's in a plane or something. And then the next day, I got: 'Hope your trip was better than mine. Enjoy the off season.' That sound real promising to you, Andy? 'Cause it sure as shit didn't to me.”

“Huh.” Andy ran his finger around the rim of his glass. “What'd you do?”

“Do we have the same mother?”

Laughing, Andy said, “We do. What'd you write back?”

“I just said something like, 'Sorry your trip sucked. And you too.'”

“And that's it?”

“Yup. He didn't write back.”

“And did you?”

He gave his brother an incredulous stare. “No. Why would I? Admit it, Andy: 'enjoy the off season' don't exactly seem like an invite for more. I don't wanna be that guy, you know? Who can't take a hint.”

“Maybe he doesn't want to be that guy either.”

“I got no idea what you're talking about. I wrote first, didn't I?”

“Well, yeah: you did. But maybe he read your text and didn't find it inviting either. Maybe he was expecting . . . something else?”

“Like what?”

“How the fuck do I know?” Andy finished his beer and put the glass down with a thump. “Listen, Tommy: I realize we're talking about guys here. And I don't even know who who your buddy is, but if he plays hockey, then he's doubly challenged.” He smirked as Tommy shoved him. “As for you, though: even though you're also a guy who plays hockey, I have to admit, you're usually pretty sharp. But you've also never been in this situation before. So: don't make assumptions. Find out for sure. Give him a call.”

“No.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“'Cause I don't want to be that guy either: the one who pushes in where he's not wanted.”

“The point is that you don't _know_ if you're wanted or not. And the only way to find out for sure is to talk to him.”

Tommy scowled. Privately, he thought Andy was probably right, but. . . . “How do I know that's the best thing to do?”

“You don't. Nothing's guaranteed in this life. But you didn't make it into the NHL by playing it safe, now did you?”

All Tommy could do was sigh. Heavily. “I guess not. Okay: I'll call him tonight.” He flipped over the tab and then pulled out his wallet. “I'll get this.”

“You don't have to.”

Tommy waved him off. “I know I don't have to. I want to. You're a good guy. Even if you are my brother.” He pushed himself off the stool. “I got to go; I promised Ma I'd do dinner.”

“Yeah, I heard about you cooking. All sorts of fancy shit, too.”

“Like what, moron? Vegetables? Believe me, there ain't nothing fancy about what I cook. You want to come over? Since Geoff's working.”

Andy shrugged. “Why not.”

**********

As they were feeding the dog and the cats, Andy said, “Anyway: I want to ask you a favor.”

“What?”

In his best snotty big brother tone, Andy retorted, “You're supposed to just agree.”

“I don't know what you've been smoking, Andy, but it ain't gonna happen. What do you need?” Tommy grinned as he got out the brown rice, thinking of Sid's aversion to it—and how Andrew made sure it showed up at least every other night; that was one argument Sid was never gonna win.

“It's not much. You know Geoff's birthday is real soon.”

“Yeah, I do. So?”

“So: I happen to know that he really wants one of those media players: like you got last Christmas. He's been drooling over yours ever since you showed it to him.”

“He did seem to like it,” Tommy agreed, and then hesitated. “Andy: they're really expensive.”

“I know.” Andy made a face. “But Geoff is worth it.”

“I can spot you if you want.”

“I'm not asking you for money, Tom-Tom; I've been saving, and I picked up this part-time thing up to Saskatoon.” He paused, and then shook his head. “Another story. No, the problem is: I can't find one to buy. No store around here—even in the big mall—has any right now. Amazon is out online, and so is every other place I can think of to look. So I thought maybe you could call and ask your friend—you said his parents make them, right?—if he knows where I could find one.”

Tommy considered. “I doubt Andrew would know. But . . . I can ask his dad directly, if you want.”

“Really? You know him that well?”

Tommy had to laugh. “Daniel calls me sometimes just to shoot the shit. Although he calls it chatting. So yeah, I can ask him for you.” He pulled out his phone and sent a text.

He'd just finished boning the fish—which was not as nice as the stuff Andrew bought; Tommy had to admit that there was a real difference, even though he for sure didn't think it was worth all that extra money—when his phone buzzed.

“Daniel says he doesn't know, but Elisabeth—that's Andrew's mom—will. She'll be back in the office tomorrow afternoon. That good enough?”

“That's great. Thanks, Tommy. And tell them thanks from me, yeah?”

Tommy complied. And then sighed. “Okay, Andy: before anybody else gets home, let's walk through this fucking phone call I seem to have talked myself into making tonight.”

**********

Brandon lay on his bed in the dark, listening to the sound of Corinth being burned to the ground; it suited his mood, which was, in a word, shitty. Rossini's music came to an end, and he picked up his iPod to choose something else. He decided to continue the theme of death by fire and started playing _Norma_ , since there was no way he was listening to Wagner tonight. He'd done beheadings the night before; if he still felt like this tomorrow, maybe he'd switch to poison. Or stabbings.

He groaned. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he honestly didn't give a fuck. And as for his thinking that things were better this way: well, maybe they were, but he didn't give a fuck about that either.

It still sucked.

The overture ended, and in the silence before Act One began, he heard his phone buzz. He forced himself to reach over and check—and sat up so fast he yanked an earbud out. It was from Tommy!  

> _Can I ask u a question?_

He didn't let himself hesitate, because he knew if he thought about it even a little, he'd do what he thought he should do, instead of what he wanted to do.

“ _Sure,_ ” he sent back.

A few seconds later, his phone rang.

“Hey Tommy.”

“This a bad time, Bran?”

“No way. I was just, uh, hanging out. Listening to some music.” That sounded a lot better than moping and sulking.

“Something from your not-a-secret-anymore iPod?”

“Uh, yeah,” Brandon admitted sheepishly.

Tommy laughed a little, but it didn't sound mean. “Anything I might of heard of?”

“I don't know? Bellini's _Norma_.”

“Nope. Not that that should surprise you; I only ever seen two operas, and heard one full one besides, and they was all by, uh, Donizetti. I say that right?”

“Sure did. Which ones?”

There was a pause. “You know what? Let's leave that question for now. 'Cause I don't wanna get sidetracked.” Another pause. “Actually, I do. But I shouldn't. 'Cause I don't know if I'll ever have the stones to try and do this again. So. Here's my question. That text you sent me: 'enjoy the off season.' Was that a brush-off?”

For a split second, Brandon considered lying, but instead he went with, “Kinda sorta.”

A longer pause. “Okay, you gotta help me out here, Bran. What exactly does that mean?”

“It means,” a deep breath, “it means that it was supposed to be a brush-off, but . . . I didn't really want it to work.”

“But you sent it anyway.”

Brandon sighed. “Yeah, Tommy, I did.”

“Why? No, wait: don't answer that. Gimme a minute.”

Grateful for the reprieve, Brandon waited. And tried to shut off his stupid brain, which was telling him he was in the last act of _Tosca_ , waiting for the firing squad. Would it be a real execution, or would he be spared?

“Okay,” Tommy said finally. “I'm gonna go out on a limb here, so you should feel free to tell me I'm wrong or if I'm full of shit. I'm guessing that this has nothing to do with what happened in Vegas. I mean: I know I had a great time, and I sorta thought you did too.”

“You're not wrong; I did.”

A slight pause; Brandon thought he heard a quick exhale, but he couldn't be sure. “Well, good. Maybe more to the point: I'm guessing this doesn't really have much to do with you or me. As, like, people. Or, individuals, maybe. I think what it has to do with is the fucking reality that you and me, we're in the fucking NHL. And there's a shit ton of baggage that goes along with that, starting with the fact that we're gay, and escalating from there. And let's not forget that we're in different conferences. So with odds like that, why not just accept the fact that what happened in Vegas stays in fucking Vegas and move on.”

“I'm not saying you're wrong,” Brandon said carefully into the silence, “but I wanna know how you got that from my text.”

“Two reasons. One: you said 'off season,' not summer. And two: don't you think I was thinking the same shit myself?”

“I kinda thought you would. You're definitely not stupid. In fact,” he confessed, “I probably wouldn't have picked up the difference between off season and summer.”

“Yeah, well,” Tommy sounded a little embarrassed, “I'm good with details. I watch a lot of movies. Anyway.” Another pause. “So. All that being said: you didn't want it to work? Your brush-off, I mean.”

“Nah.” Brandon decided to go for it. “Not at all. I like you, Tommy. You're fun. And you're funny. Real easy to be with. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to get to know you a lot better. And . . . uh. . . .”

“See where things go?”

“Yeah, that. But . . . fuck, I don't know. I decided it was probably better to face facts up front rather than down the road. But I'm been completely miserable, man; you have no idea.”

“I kind of do, Bran; my oldest brother fucking _intervened_ me today.”

Brandon had to laugh. “If my iPod could do that, it would; it's been stuck on 'tragic' the last two days.” He kind of liked Tommy's snicker; it sounded . . . appreciative.

“Look,” Tommy continued, “I know we don't know each other all that well, but the whole trip back home, I spent, like, replaying the time we was together. And not just the sex. Even though we was both hot to trot, we closed down that restaurant, we was talking so much.”

“Uh, Tommy: there's nothing like trading under-the-table hand jobs to take the edge off.” They both laughed, and then Brandon added, “But you're right. The sex was excellent, but so was the rest of it. I think . . .” he only hesitated a second or two before forging ahead, “I kinda think that's why I've been so depressed. Part of it's the whole general 'gay in the NHL' thing, and I can't even tell you how fucking sick of _that_ I am, but part of it . . . uh, part of it's a lot more specific. I can't remember ever having as much fun during a hook-up.”

“Me either. And you know, I think that says something.”

There was a pause, but before Brandon could do anything more than recognize the sense of hope rising inside of him, Tommy went on, “And . . . don't laugh at me, but . . . there were times in Vegas when I was yelling at myself in my head. Reminding myself that it _was_ probably only a hook-up. 'Cause . . . to tell you the truth, I ain't had all that many of them, and for sure I never had one like what we did, but . . . oh, Christ! To be honest, Bran? Even at the time, it didn't exactly seem like a hook-up to me. And afterwards?”

“What?” Brandon bit the inside of his cheek, hoping this was going where he wanted it to go.

“Well, it seems like you got in my head. And since you're there anyway . . . if it's okay with you, Bran, I'd like to ignore your last text. I'd really like to get to know you better too. Can we do that?

Yes! Brandon pumped his fist in victory. Out loud, he said, “Tommy, I think that is a fucking excellent idea.” And this time, he heard Tommy's exhale of relief clearly.

**********

A couple of hours later, after they'd both started yawning practically every other minute, Brandon admitted, “I guess I need to hit the hay.”

“Me too.” Tommy yawned again. “Hey, Bran? I had fun tonight. Once we got past . . . well, you know.”

“I did too, Tommy. A lot. Uh, thanks for calling. And for being honest. And for . . . well, for ignoring my bullshit.”

“You don't got to thank me. But,” another yawn, “okay. You do got to do something for me.”

The almost-order certainly got Brandon's attention. “Sure. What?”

“When we get off the phone: I want you to dial up something happy on your iPod and listen to it 'til you fall asleep. Can you do that?”

Brandon felt . . . a bubble . . . rise in his gut. He hoped Tommy could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “I sure can. Let's do this again, Tommy, okay?”

“Is tomorrow night too soon?”

Another bubble. And then another. “No way; I'll give you a call. Good night, Tommy.”

“Night, Bran.”

Smiling, Brandon got up to piss. Climbing back into bed, he cued up the aria he wanted; he had at least four versions of it, but really, tonight of all nights, there was only one choice. Still smiling, he drifted off listening to Andrew's Almaviva greet the laughing dawn.

And if he sighed a little at the line, “Sorgi, mia dolce speme”—“Rise, my sweet hope”—well, there was nobody there to hear.


End file.
